Running Late
by Phx
Summary: Sam was supposed to keep Dean busy. He did.
1. Chapter 1

**Fan fic is acting up again and won't format properly, so I'm apologzing right now but the italics aren't working... I'll try to fix it again tommorrow. This is a two parter - I hope you enjoy this!**

**Running Late**

**Chapter 1**

As soon as twenty-three year old Sam Winchester opened his eyes he knew he was screwed.

It was either dawn or dusk depending on how long he'd been knocked out, however there was a certain nippy dampness in the air that leaned more towards early morning. Especially since his last memory was of being on a hunt in the middle of the night. We really need to get day jobs…

Sam was face down on a gravel road and his hands were bound outstretched in front of him by thick rope. Freakin' great.

Groaning as he lifted his aching head Sam saw that the other end of the rope was tied to the bumper of - _God help him_ – the Impala.

"Shit," he cursed, forcing the word past his dry mouth with a cough. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Oooh Sammmmy?" an all too familiar voice sing-songed from somewhere ahead of him, "You doing all right back there, little brother?"

Well there really was no good way to answer that. Being tied to the back of a car was not exactly what Sam was supposed to be doing right now, however he was supposed to be the distraction and this could definitely be considered distracting. Now if only his older brother wasn't possessed and Sam wasn't tethered, things might have actually been looking good. "Uh," he grunted out shifting to push up on his knees. He needed to get to his feet. "Not really."

A hearty laugh made the hunter cringe as he forced one leg to bear weight and then the other to stand. He swayed for a moment then leaned over, his bound hands on his knees, as his stomach lurched and rolled. Swallowing hard, he managed to keep the bile down and slowly straightened. This is not going to be fun.

The sound of the engine rumbling to life spat urgency and Sam fought against the rope, twisting, pulling, and even biting on it but, damn it, the knots were too good.

And then the car started to move.

"Oh shit," Sam whispered – what the hell was taking Bobby so long?

It was supposed to be a simple hunt. A freakin' haunted house of all things; a 'milk run' according to his wise-ass older brother. But then Dean got possessed by the spirit, a woman no less, which Sam intended to never let him live down. And, of course, it wasn't just any ol' woman but a homicidal psychopath who hated men… Things kinda went way fucked up after that.

'Keep yer brother busy, while I salt'n burn the bitch.' Bobby's plan sure sounded a hell of a lot easier one less concussion ago.

"Hey Sambo," his 'brother' taunted, "lovely morning for a run ain't it?" The car accelerated slowly, forcing Sam to keep up or be dragged.

Stumbling slightly the young hunter lengthened his stride to keep pace with the vehicle as it slowly continued to pick up speed. Gifted with long legs, Sam was a natural runner who excelled over distance, normally, to his older brother's chagrin, however this was anything but normal. This was against a car; a ton of metal powered by a V8 engine and a possessed hunter. If Bobby didn't find the grave and finish the spirit quickly, this wasn't going to end well for Sam.

The car moved faster.

Sam started to breathe harder; his legs stretched further, his head pounded –

And then Dean slammed on the brakes.

Whoa!

Backpedaling Sam barely kept from slamming face first into the car.

Shit!

"How was the warm-up?" Dean hollered as he leaned out the driver's side window to get a good look at Sam.

Sam bent over, his bound hands on his legs again as he gulped air. He glanced up through sweat soaked bangs, Dean laughed, twisted back in his seat and revved the engine –

The sound drove a spike of terror through Sam.

Oh crap. Not again!

"Ready for round two, little bro?" the spirit tormented. "'Cause I sure am!" And that was all the warning Sam got before the car was shoved into gear and the tires chewed road, again.

* * *

Bobby Singer was not having a good time. He'd had no trouble finding out which cemetery Moira Smith was buried in but that was the easy part. The graveyard itself was in terrible need of repair and most of the markers on the plots were either eroded beyond readability, broken or just outright missing, making finding Moira's grave much more difficult than it should have been. It was taking too long. Time that he wasn't sure Sam had.

Dean getting possessed had certainly taken the fun out of the hunt. Not that Bobby would ever consider what they did, fun. However this seemed to be a fairly straight forward haunting, and in truth the older man had enjoyed working with the boys, spending a little time with the younger hunters he considered as his own… well right up 'til the whole possessed thing.

Bobby would have, in a heartbeat, agreed to be the distraction but as much as it pained him to admit it, he wasn't in any shape to go toe-to-toe with Dean Winchester. Sam stood the better chance and even then it wasn't going to be a cakewalk. All the seasoned veteran could hope was that Moira didn't get the drop on Sam; by possessing one, she'd effectively neutered the other. Sure Sam wouldn't let her hurt anyone else but he'd hold back and that could be costly.

And then the seasoned veteran finally saw it.

The gravestone was badly busted up. The whole top left corner looked like it had been cleaved off but he was pretty sure IRA SMITH was his gal. In fact he was betting the Winchesters lives on it.

Now came the real fun part. Digging.

Yippee.

* * *

Sam ran.

His long legs stretched out as his bound hands desperately tried to keep his balance.

His lungs screamed; his muscles quivered and burned.

But Sam still ran.

The car picked up speed –

And then slammed to a stop.

Once again, Sam scrambled to keep from slamming into the rear of the car.

Once again, Dean leaned out the window, smart-assed something, gave him a moment, than started again.

After the third time, the exhausted hunter knew the game.

Bobby… c'mon…

He also knew he couldn't last much longer.

* * *

By the time Bobby's shovel split the wooden lid on the coffin the hunter was exhausted, he'd never dug a grave so quickly in his life. The back of his shirt clung to him, heavy with sweat as his heart pounded and he had to lean against the cold, damp dirt side of the hole for a moment to catch his breath.

Not as young as I used to be, he mused bitterly and then wasted no more time.

* * *

Sam lost track of how many times they'd done this; his life narrowed down to a twisted game of cat and mouse. She was playing with him.

"C'mon, Sammy," he was goaded as the stopped Impala revved its engines, "I could do this all day!"

With nothing left to expend on an answer, Sam staggered, weaved and almost fell when the car started to move.

Stop. Go.

Stop. Go.

Stop –

Sam's legs gave out as Dean stomped on the brakes one more time. Unable to stop the collapse, the younger man was jerked forward and hit the car. Hard.

Fire burned through his wrists as he tried to brace himself; bitter agony, ripped from his throat, cut off as his face smashed into the top of the trunk.

Blood exploded –

His vision bled black and Sam was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * *

"Good-bye, bitch."

Bobby dropped the match.

* * *

Dean burst from the car, fell to the ground and vomited. His body heaved, his arms shook and threatened to drop him face first into the bile as the cold gravel dug into his knees and palms.

"S-Sam?" he choked and gasped. "Sammy…"

Muddled memories tore at him, vivid images of his brother, the car, his brother running behind the car and he heaved again. Oh, God, Sammy.

Pushing himself up on his knees, Dean fought every instinct to stay down, one thought propelling him beyond exhaustion. Sam. He knew his brother was hurt, possibly even – Dean slammed down that thought, Sam needed him. Bracing himself against the cold metal of his beloved, the hunter forced himself the rest of the way to his feet and staggered towards the trunk and then stopped. Christ.

Sam lay limp; bound, bloodied and face down in the gravel behind the car. Horror struck, Dean followed the length of rope from his brother to the bumper –

Oh, God. It had happened.

* * *

Bobby scrabbled for his cell phone, dirty thick fingers pounded speed dial 2.

"C'mon, c'mon," he barked, impatient and needing to know the boys were all right, terrified he was too late.

It went to voice mail.

You've reached Sam Winchester. I'm sorry…

"Shit." Not bothering to leave a message, Bobby didn't even pause, he hit speed dial 1 and prayed.

* * *

Dean crouched next to his brother and reached out hesitantly. God the kid was a mess, thick blood marred one side of Sam's face but it seemed to be all coming from his nose and busted lip. No gushing gashes or jutting bones but Dean had no idea what might be going on with the other side of his brother's face yet. "Sammy?" he whispered resting his hand gently on the injured man's back. He felt the steady rise and fall of the warm body beneath his touch and something inside, tight and sickly, unwound. Sam was alive, everything else he could work around. "Sam?" he pressed, his voice louder this time as he leaned in closer to hear a breathless whimper. "You with me, bro?" From somewhere in the car, his cell phone started ringing but Dean ignored it.

"D'n…" the slurred moan had to be his name. Sam coughed and moved his head slightly against the gravel pressing into his cheek. "Z'ou?"

"Yeah, kiddo. It's… me." The word stuck in Dean's throat as he remembered being possessed. He remembered Moira's rage, her hatred and shivered. "Just me."

The cell stopped ringing.

"G'd."

Good or God, Dean didn't know which but either fit. Sam moved again, struggling to get up. "Whoa, easy, Sammy. Easy." Keeping one hand on his brother's back, Dean quickly unsheathed his belt knife and started to work on the thick rope binding his brother's wrists, not willing to take the time to untie them, although with the way his own hands shook… Dean stopped. Closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He couldn't handle it if he cut Sam even by accident, right then. He'd done enough hurting his little brother for one day. Letting out the breath slowly, he forced a calm he didn't feel, steadied his hands and released Sam. Big brother was back.

The damn phone was ringing again. It was aggravating and didn't go to voicemail soon enough.

The ropes fell away from the younger hunter as Sam moaned and curled in on himself, pulling his arms in towards his body and shifting away from Dean.

Swallowing the rejection, Dean sat back on his heels and followed his brother's movements with a frown. He needed to know how badly Sam was hurt. "Sammy?"

"Shit." A breathless curse and a bit more restless scrabbling later, Sam was panting hard but seemed to know what Dean was asking. "Wrists," he grit out. Dean winced. "Face."

Using the car as leverage Dean slowly pushed back to his feet. "Wrists… Face," he repeated as he yanked the car keys out of the ignition and moved back towards the rear of the car. "Anything else?" Unlocking the trunk, he found the first aid kit and then returned to his brother, thankful beyond reason that Sam was conscious. Slipping out of his coat, Dean gently draped it across the trembling hunter as he sank back down beside him. Shock was a real threat. "Sam?"

His brother didn't answer just quieted beneath the body warmed leather jacket and panted softly. Sam's eyes were half opened but Dean was pretty sure he wasn't looking at anything.

The cell started again and this time Dean cursed out loud.

Curiously enough that got a response from Sam. "Z'its Bobby…."

"I know," Dean admitted feeling a prickle of guilt for ignoring the calls even as he gently palpated Sam's wrists, first the right then the left. Sam's nose had stopped bleeding, at least.

Both wrists were hot and swollen. Damnit. Sprained, probably broken.

"Get it." Even hurt and half conscious Sam could be bossy. That boy was pure Winchester and it reassured Dean more then he'd ever admit. Sam was hurting but he'd be okay. "Tell 'em, I'm 'kay."

"You want me to lie?" Dean asked, forcing lightness into his tone as he dug through the first aid kit to find something to use as temporary splints. Towels. Tape. He was in business. "To Bobby?"

"Dean," his name was a sighed exasperation.

Giving his brother a gentle pat, Dean stood up again. "Fine. Fine." He mock grumbled and then froze as he felt something cold slither across his skin raising goose-bumps with a terrifying familiarity. "Shit!"

Moira was back.

* * *

Bobby was seriously pissed off or worried, he couldn't decide which as neither Winchester answered their phones. Shouldering the shovel, he barked at Dean's voicemail to return his damn call and stalked back through the cemetery. Those boys were going to be the death of him, he was certain.

Halfway out of the cemetery he absently glanced towards the right at a rather gaudy looking headstone with a concrete parrot on the top, he hadn't seen this one on his way in, and froze. MOIRA SMITH. What the hell?

The blood drained from his face. Damn. IRA wasn't his girl.

Crap.

Cursing loudly, Bobby grabbed the shovel and started digging, again.

* * *

"D'n?" Sam slurred more out of sheer exhaustion than anything else. His whole face throbbed from where it had mashed against the Impala's trunk and was now resting against the road, but other than that he'd gotten off surprisingly lightly, all things considered. Well until he considered his arms, his wrists actually… They ached, horrible and hot with each heartbeat and he was pretty sure they were broken, which was really going to suck. He could already imagine the field day Dean was going to have with this as Sam recovered… Sam paused. Dean. Speaking of Dean, where was he? Sam was hurting, shouldn't he be hovering around somewhere? Especially as the injured hunter could easily imagine what kind of field day Dean's guilt complex was probably going on. Stupid big jerk. It wasn't even his fault.

Struggling to sit and using his elbows to lever himself up a bit, Sam tried to keep his wrists steady but he was still gasping and trembling at the effort it took just to sit. Slowly, he looked around. The world seemed a split second behind him and it took a few moments for it to catch up and him to focus on it but when he did, he froze.

Fuck.

Dean was standing a few feet away from him but by the cold, cruel look in those dark eyes, Sam knew it wasn't his brother watching over him. The spirit was back.

Oh shit.

And she didn't look any friendlier this time.

To be continued –

IMPORTANT: K Hanna Korossoy is running a Supernatural fanfic auction for the next two weeks (June 28 - July 12) benefiting a fellow writer, publisher, and friend who is in need of a wheelchair. Twenty-two writers (and one vidder!), including myself, have offered their talents and time to this endeavor, and every penny goes to the fund.

The auction can be found at www.thefreeauction (dot)com under Miscellaneous-General - or type in SUPERNATURAL under search, and registering to bid is fast and free.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. I am sorry I haven't had a chance to respond to each and every one personally but things have been hectic. And a special thank you to everyone who participated in the auction. It's over and it was a huge success! Anyways, thank you to both Red and Kati - I think this chapter is much better for both your input :)

**Running Late**

**Chapter 2**

This time when Sam Winchester opened his eyes he knew he was dead. There was no way anyone living could be in this much pain: his head hurt, his nose throbbed, his lips were dry and cracked, he was thirsty. His shoulders ached, his wrists burned…

So not only was he dead, but he was in hell. _Well, shit._ That just plain sucked.

"Kinda hoped… I'd done… enough good," he gasped and slowly tried to lift his head, unnerved by how much effort that simple task took. His whole body trembled with pain and exhaustion, the minute tremors setting his nerve endings on fire. Was it too much to hope that this was all a bad dream and he'd wake up at any moment to a cheap motel room with a concerned, _not-possessed_ Dean hovering over him? The rancid odor of his own sweat and blood made him sigh. Yeah, apparently so.

Once again his battered wrists were bound together, but this time they were pulled over his head so that he was strung up with his sneakers barely brushing the floor. Sam was pretty certain the ghost had dragged his ass back to her haunted house but couldn't remember much after being tossed in the trunk of the Impala. And, _ow_, didn't that hurt. It really wasn't fair that possessed people got to be so strong, and how exactly he fit in the trunk was something probably better left unremembered, but even his kneecaps and elbows felt bruised now.

Sam was pretty sure from the way his head pounded that the room was going to be spinning when he finally got his eyes open, so he was opting to do this one step at a time: _lift head, get eyeballs pointed in the right direction, then look._

It sounded like a very good plan. Too bad his Moira-possessed brother had other ideas…

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bac'y, nap time's over."

He so hated that saying.

Something sharp gently caressed the side of Sam's face, and then, suddenly, ripped right down through the front of his shirt.

_What the hell?!_

Sam recoiled; his eyes opened in time to see the flash of a knife before the world swam and his body lurched again, this time to keep from throwing up.

Chuckling, Dean shook his head as he moved behind Sam, yanking Sam's ripped shirt back so that his chest was fully exposed. Swallowing hard and tensing, Sam tried to see what was happening, but couldn't. His heart raced, his vision dimmed, and he fought hard to stay conscious, terrified of what Moira might do if he passed out. A moment later, his brother stepped back in front of him. The knife was gone, but the older man was now holding something else. Sam couldn't really see what it was.

Dean leaned in close and smirked at Sam; the hatred in his eyes twisted his face into something Dean could never be. And even if _Dean_ killed him right here, right now, his brother's face would not be the last thing he'd see. It was cold comfort, but Sam took what he could. And just where the hell was Bobby?

"Ready to play some more, little brother?" The spirit hissed in his brother's voice.

Sam shivered, his gaze shifting downward, and all the blood drained out of his face. Moira had Dean's belt. She held it in a deceptively loose grasp by the buckle, but the young hunter didn't even try to delude himself. It was still going to hurt. Cold fingers trailed down his chest and Sam shivered. _Oh God_.

"Please… you don't want to do this," Sam tried to stall, his words a hoarse whisper. He was so thirsty. "You're…not a killer."

The spirit twitched Dean's lips into a scary caricature of his brother's usual shit-eating grin, but she didn't say anything, just continued to watch Sam, her head tilted at an appraising angle.

"We're not here to hurt you… We want to help." _Anytime, Bobby…_

"_Help me?" _the spirit hissed. The voice was not Dean's this time. "_How can you help me?"_

"We – ah," Exhaustion made each word difficult. "We can help you… find peace."

"_Peace?"_ She snorted skeptically; her ghostly face now just barely visible and translucent, superimposed over Dean's. It was unsettling but Sam forced himself to keep eye contact with both of them. _"There is no peace in death."_ Dean lifted the belt back, preparing to strike.

"Please, Moira," Sam begged, "You don't want to do this."

"Actually—"

Sam closed his eyes and let his head drop back down.

"—I do."

The belt struck.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

Bobby burned rubber. It'd taken too long to finally put the bitch to rest. Too damn long while neither Winchester answered their phone.

Careening to a rocking stop in front of the old house, he let out a relieved sigh when he saw the Impala still parked out front, although he realized, with growing apprehension, that it wasn't _Dean_ who'd parked her. Dean Winchester would _never_ leave his baby resting on the front steps, her front bumper crammed against the banister, the trunk wide open.

"Damn," the older hunter muttered as he hurried out of his own car, grabbed a shotgun, and hit the steps at a run. _What happened here?_ "Sam!" he yelled as he burst through the front door. Had it really been almost five hours, and two dug graves since he'd left them here telling Sam to keep Dean occupied? "DEAN!" he barked, then held his breath to listen, but the house was quiet. Too quiet. _Shit._

"No, no," Bobby muttered as he frantically searched the first floor. "SAM!" He shook his head and growled. "We're not doing this, boys, you hear me? _Not_ doing this. DEAN!" His voice booming through the house, he paused and listened again. Did he just hear something?

The sound of whispering chilled Bobby, and his heart pounded with new fear. "Sam?" Moving towards the stairs, the hunter followed the sound. He primed the shotgun and then slowly climbed up. "You up here?"

The stairs creaked under his boots, but Bobby wasn't concerned about stealth this time. Moira was gone for good; now all he had to do was find the boys and make sure they were okay. Some milk run this turned out to be.

"Dean?" Reaching the second floor, Bobby's gaze was instantly drawn toward another set of stairs at the end of the hallway. They led to the attic, and from where he was standing, the man could see the attic door was open wide, a gaping maw in the dimly lit corridor. _"Boys?_"

The whispering stopped.

Undecided for only a moment, the hunter hurried toward the second set of stairs.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

Sam breathed slowly, each breath carefully measured. Too much meant searing pain, too little meant suffocation, so he concentrated hard, fully focused on that one task. And once he didn't think he'd hurl or pass out anymore, he moved on to bigger and better things. Like opening his eyes. Déjà vu.

At first he thought he was blind, and an almost overpowering panic had him forgetting to breathe and doubling over in agony, his forehead pressing painfully against the threadbare blanket buffeting him from the cold wooden floor as his bare chest – and where was his shirt? – protested even the slightest contact. _Shit, that belt hurt_. Sam had lost count of how many times he'd been struck before his brother had finally collapsed at his feet, truly un-possessed this time. Coarse fibers tickled his nose as he panted and fought hard to stay conscious. _Dammit._

Immediately, a warm hand was on his back, and Sam flinched, his bruised body oversensitive and aching. The hand disappeared.

"Sorry," he gasped. He didn't want Dean thinking it was he who had caused that reaction. It wasn't. He wasn't scared of his brother. He _wasn't_. It was _Moira_ who'd hurt him. She'd just used Dean to do it. But right now he was hurting and his body's responses were beyond his control. But not his words. "S'not you."

Sam remembered the horrified look on his brother's face when Moira had finally gone; the terrified comprehension that bowed his strong brother after Dean lurched back to his feet and got his first good look at what she'd done. The whispered and broken "No, no, no" as Dean had reached out for him and then stopped, his hands hovering, his eyes locked on the nasty welts and marks on Sam's chest. It was only by small favor that Moira had spared him from the buckle but more likely that Bobby had denied her the pleasure. _Thank God._

So, no. It wasn't Dean.

"Sam." The heavy sigh didn't sound convinced.

"It's… Sammy," he whispered, wanting his brother to take it for what it was. Absolution.

No chuckle, no exasperation. Nothing. Just a softly spoken "don't" that hurt worse than anything else Sam was feeling now.

It was Sam's turn to sigh.

"Bobby'll be here soon." Dean's voice came from somewhere beside him. He sounded close but had never felt farther away. Sam closed his eyes again, preferring just to listen. It made him feel less nauseated, and the sound of his brother's breathing nearby was always comforting.

"Bobby?" he managed, shifting slightly; even doped up on whatever painkillers Dean had given him, the numb pain in his wrists made him restless. He was lying curled on his side, his back to Dean; a vague memory of being cut down leaving him shivering, and he swallowed convulsively. _Damn ghost._ He'd been lowered first onto something cold, _the floor?,_ and then moved with great care onto something softer, a blanket, as Dean rushed out an apology for leaving. Sam had no memory of him leaving but by his brother's breathlessness and that he now had both the blanket and the first aid kit, he must have gone to the Impala. Triage was a blurry haze of calloused hands and softly spoken words. Soothing, rambling. A mixed dialogue of _"Easy, Sam, I've got you… you're going to be okay"_ and _"Shit, shit, shit_" But always ending with "_you're safe._"

Once Dean had decided Sam's injuries, while painful, weren't life-threatening, the older hunter had carefully treated what he could, given Sam some of the 'good stuff' and helped him settle on his side. Then he'd pulled himself away. Distanced himself from Sam and watched over him, almost as if he didn't trust himself to be too close. _Stupid idiot_.

Moments later the warm weight of his brother's jacket settled across his bare back and he idly wondered when Dean had gotten the jacket back, too. Sam had thought it'd been left on the side of the road. He had a lot to think about… The lingering scent of aftershave and gun oil lulled his over-stimulated senses.

"Yeah," Dean cleared his throat, sounding oddly uncomfortable. "Figured it'd be best to, uh, wait for him."

Sam frowned and suddenly needed to see his brother. "Dean?" He opened his eyes again and tried to push himself up. Big mistake. Searing agony ripped through his arms and shoulders, and Sam barely bit back a cry before his body heaved and he vomited. Fresh pain ripped through his bruised chest.

Instantly, Dean's arms were around him, mindful of the welts, pulling him up to lean back against his own chest when Sam started to list, forgetting about whatever reservations he'd been harboring. "Easy, Sammy. Easy."

Hot tears pricked his eyes from the force of agony that burned through his body as he continued to heave. Only Dean's strong grip and comforting litany kept him grounded through the pain. He wanted to turn and bury his face in his brother's shoulder and let Dean handle things for a while... His head slowly lolled to the side, his cheek pressed against his brother's shirt, his ear listened for the sound of Dean's heartbeat over his own ragged breathing.

Dean's heart pounded. It was the rhythm of Sam's life, comforting in a way he could not explain or understand himself, and it was only now starting to calm down. His brother had been scared too.

"Don't…want…Bobby," he gasped harshly, every movement tearing hot-white pain through his body. "J-jerk."

Dean didn't say anything. But he didn't move away either. A huffed exhale of air stirred Sam's sweat soaked hair. Fingers idly stroked the arms they held.

Trying hard to control his breathing, Sam settled against his brother soaking up the warmth from the body behind him and having no compunction to move, even if he thought he could. "Dean—" Sam tried again, determined to get through to his bull-headed sibling. And people thought he was the stubborn one?

"Sam?" Dean interrupted him quietly. He felt his brother shift behind him, slowly moving into a more comfortable position and being careful not to jar Sam.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up…" There was a moment's pause. "…bitch."

Sam bit back the ghost of a smile as he closed his eyes, exhausted but okay. Yes, he was hurting and yes, Dean was guilt-tripping, but, at the end of it all, when the smoke cleared, when it mattered the most, they were still okay.

Moments later, he was out, his brother's whispered and sincere "_I'm sorry, Sammy_" following him under.

…

That was how Bobby found them a few minutes later when he burst into the attic. Sam was asleep or unconscious, propped back against Dean's chest, his head half turned and tucked up under his brother's chin. Dean, wide awake, body tensed, eyes deadly, had one arm around his brother, keeping the injured man secure, safe. The other was holding a handgun, steady and aimed. Right at Bobby.

Bobby scowled but didn't take it personally.

The arm holding the gun dropped, and Bobby suddenly wasn't so sure who was leaning on whom. Immediate relief that the boys were okay quickly warred with the obvious fact that they weren't. Dean looked exhausted and beaten, his eyes haunted, and Sam… well, Bobby crouched down in front of the younger men, Sam looked like he'd been hooked up to the back of the Impala and dragged along for a couple of miles. He frowned when he saw the splinted wrists. Recovery was going to be a bitch… But both youngsters were breathing though, and if the glare Dean was giving him was any indication, would live to fight another day.

"So, uh, Bobby," Dean started with faux casualness, "Exactly what the hell did you do? Dig up the grave with your ass?"

Without missing a beat, the older hunter snorted. "Not possible, I left him behind with his brother."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Hey!"

Bobby laughed 'cause God help him, these were his boys…

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

The End


End file.
